


late night snack

by touchtheskye



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Coulson cooks, F/M, Kitchen Sex, late night, prompt, skoulsonfest2k15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 05:13:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3196613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/touchtheskye/pseuds/touchtheskye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skye had a hard time picturing Coulson like this: domestic, hair rumpled, wrinkled clothes and rolled-up sleeves, padding around a kitchen in socks.</p>
<p>(Written for Skoulson RomFest 2k15. Day 3, prompt: Coulson cooks.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	late night snack

It’s late and Skye is doing that thing again where she is eating peanut butter straight out of the jar. She feels a little gross about it, but mostly she’s starving and she doesn’t care. Besides, cooking for one person? What a waste of time and energy and dishes. Cooking isn’t something she’s ever been especially good at anyway, and she’s always so hungry after the shooting range for some reason, and she didn’t really have dinner, and it’s not like there’s anyone here to see her standing around eating peanut butter by the spoonful. So.

“Hungry?” 

Coulson is leaning against the doorway, looking pointedly at the jar in her hands. Busted. 

“I was just - yeah.” Skye screws the lid back on the jar and gets herself a glass of water. She pulls down a second glass and fills it for Coulson, then slides it across the counter towards him. A peace offering. 

“Thanks,” he says, sipping his water. “Are you still hungry? I was just about to make myself something, and I hate cooking for just one person. It’s such a waste, you know?”

Skye grins, leaning over the countertop. Word of Coulson’s culinary prowess had spread very quickly when Simmons got back from England, and it’s become kind of a thing for the team to tease him about it. Skye has spent more time than she would like to admit Googling fancy-sounding foods. 

“Oooh, Chef Coulson is in. What’s it gonna be, sir? Quiche Lorraine? Crème brûlée? Croque-monsieur?”

She’s a little disappointed when Coulson doesn’t rise to the bait. He just smiles at her and picks up the jar of peanut butter.

“What about peanut butter cookies?”

“Ah, biscuits au beurre d’arachide! A classic staple of haute cuisine.” Her French must be awful if Coulson’s face is any indication, but she can’t help it. She loves this, messing with the boss. She always has. 

She had been the first to know about the little steak-and-kale spectacular with Simmons. It’s a pretty good story, and Simmons tells it well. Skye loves how Simmons tells stories, with scientific rigor, because it means she always includes all the small details. Which drawer she kept her gun in at the flat, how scared she was to come home to some kind of Hydra intruder, how relieved she was to find her boss standing in the middle of her kitchen, tie slackened and sleeves rolled to the elbow.

“Are you really going to make me cookies?”

“ _We_ are going to make _us_ cookies, yes.” Coulson meets her gaze with a look that’s challenging and bossy.

“But I’ve always wanted to see the master at work, sir,” and it’s not a whine but a low, soft tease. “I just want to watch.” 

To her surprise, Chef Coulson agrees to indulge her. He pulls out a barstool and invites her to take a seat.

He sets the oven to preheat, then makes a big show of removing his jacket and setting it down, clearly for her benefit. He loosens his tie next, taking it off slowly, folding it neatly and resting it on top of his jacket. 

He rolls up his sleeves and undoes the first button of his white shirt. Skye is starting to wonder what she’s gotten herself into, because Coulson can be kind of a flirt, sure, but she can’t believe that he’s intentionally putting on some kind of burlesque act. 

But then he looks up at her like he’s making sure she’s watching and undoes two more buttons, flicking his collar open, exposing way more skin than she’s used to seeing. He quirks an eyebrow at her in mock-seduction and she laughs, because now she knows what this is, it’s payback for the croque-monsieur comment. He’s messing with her. Perfect.

Coulson moves through the kitchen with practiced ease, collecting ingredients. It suits him, she realizes. Even as Simmons was telling her the surprise-steak-and-kale story, Skye had a hard time picturing Coulson like this: domestic, hair rumpled, wrinkled clothes and rolled-up sleeves, padding around a kitchen in his socks.

He has washed his hands and assembled most of what he needs, an assortment of bowls and spoons and measuring cups before him. He picks up a little plastic bottle of vanilla extract from the cupboard beside the stove and considers it for a moment. 

She watches in confusion as he drops it on the floor, totally on purpose. Then he bends over to pick it up, angling himself a little awkwardly so she gets a clear view of him waving his trouser-clad ass in her face. Cute. He turns around and looks at her, all raised eyebrows and pretend innocence. She snorts at him, very ladylike, shaking her head. She can’t believe how far he’s taking this.

Coulson is doing this without a recipe, and once he’s actually focusing on measuring out ingredients and mixing them together, the goofing around stops. His eyebrows are furrowed and he’s got a little pouty-lipped frown going on as he starts blending the wet and dry ingredients. This is actually sexier, watching Coulson concentrate.

Skye can’t help but stare at his bare forearms as he mixes the dough, his muscles working harder as it thickens. She watches, fascinated, as his flour-covered hands start forming little balls of dough. He rolls each lump between his fingers with speed and dexterity, producing perfect little rounds, then placing them on the cookie sheet. The repetition is mesmerizing. Once the sheet is filled, he presses each ball of dough twice with a fork, flattening them with a cross-hatch pattern.

Coulson seems to have forgotten about his little cooking show as he places the baking sheet in the oven and sets the timer. He loads the dishwasher and washes his hands, then starts to put the ingredients away while the cookies bake.

The lid isn’t on the vanilla extract all the way, and Coulson accidentally spills some on his shirt as he’s putting it back in the cupboard. He curses under his breath and dabs ineffectually at the fabric with a dishcloth.

“Take it off,” Skye suggests, unhelpfully. Coulson gives her a look that clearly says _actual striptease is where I draw the line here_ , but Skye has already made up her mind. 

“Come on, don’t be ridiculous, that’s a nice shirt. It’s going to stain. Here, let me help you.” She goes to him and tugs the hem out from under his belt, starts unbuttoning from the bottom. 

The air in the room suddenly goes from warm and cozy to charged. Skye has no idea what possessed her to start removing Coulson’s clothes. This is way beyond a joke now, this isn’t flirting - this is Coulson letting her undress him. 

She gets to the last two buttons, closest to his heart. His hands shoot up and grab her wrists, suddenly and kind of hard. She freezes, meeting his eyes. There’s something in his eyes, dark and afraid, but it fades before she can define it.

“ _Skye_.” He says her name like a warning, but loosens his grip. Slowly, gently, she brings her hands back to his chest. She can feel his eyes on her as she undoes the last two buttons, hands fumbling. She opens his shirt and immediately sees the source of his skittishness. 

In the middle of Coulson’s chest is the biggest scar she’s ever seen in her life, and that includes the two point-blank gunshot scars in her own stomach. She knew in theory that his scar had to exist, she knew he had been killed and brought back to life. She just wasn’t expecting it to be this huge and catastrophic-looking in real life.

Her eyes flicker up to his. All the amusement and flirtatiousness is gone now, he’s just watching her intently. She rests her fingertips against the gnarled skin and his chest rises under her touch; she hadn’t noticed that he was holding his breath. She strokes a line down, tracing the rough scar tissue with tender fascination.

She feels an urge to kiss it, to kiss him. _What the hell is that about?_ She looks up into his eyes and for a split second she swears he’s thinking the same thing. But the timer on the oven goes off and the moment quickly disappears into the same nowhere it came from.

Coulson blinks a few times and steps back, distancing himself. He grabs an oven mitt, takes the cookies out, and turns off the oven. He silently moves the cookies to a cooling rack. Skye stands there, rooted to the spot, puzzling over what just happened.

It’s impressively awkward in here, despite how everything smells like fresh-baked cookies. Skye is thinking she should maybe say something when Coulson just backs her up against the countertop and kisses her.  

His shirt is still open, hanging off his shoulders. He looks so much like the cover of a bad romance novel that she would probably find it funny if she wasn’t so distracted by his hands low on her hips and his tongue brushing the roof of her mouth. 

Her hands are all over his chest, exploring the hot exposed skin greedily. She traces his scar, trails her fingers through his chest hair. She tweaks a nipple. He makes a sound half-way between a growl and a laugh and she feels it pass through her whole body.

He is grinding against her hip and she can feel the length of him, already hard. She is struggling with the button and zipper of her pants, one-handed and clumsy, her movements crushed between their bodies. She somehow succeeds in getting her pants undone and half-way off, her underwear at her knees, shameless.

He is just as brazen, his hand slipping between her thighs eagerly. He moans against her lips when he discovers how wet she is, hot and slick and ready for him. He presses up into her heat, curling up and stroking with expert fingers. She’s going to lose any second it if he keeps this up. 

She brings her lips to his ear and it all comes out in a rush, she tells him everything: how sexy his little cooking demonstration was, how hot it is that he let her watch, how beautiful he looks like this, how much she wants him. Coulson’s hands stop moving, his whole body stills against hers, listening, zeroing in on the sound of her voice.

Skye worries for a moment that she’s talking too much, that she’s ruining it, but then Coulson makes this odd noise at the back of his throat and she’s in the air, being lifted up onto the counter. The granite is cold against her bare ass but she honestly can’t give a single fuck about it - not with the way Coulson is kneading her breasts through her shirt and kissing her like this, all need and hunger and hot tongue pressing against hers. 

She breaks away from his lips just long enough to tug her shirt over her head and free herself of her bra. Then she’s grabbing him by the collar of his ruined white shirt, dragging him closer, breathing raggedly as he brings his mouth to her breast.

This is all happening so fast, she is getting vertigo from the newness of it all. She’s never had sex on a kitchen counter before, never wanted to, not practical. She’s never thought about Coulson this way before either, never imagined he could be like this, dirty and impulsive and totally irresistible.

He has her at a good angle, a hand spread over her lower back, supporting her. He’s got both elbows on the counter, pressing feverish kisses to her stomach, her inner thighs, and then finally, mercifully, between her legs.

Coulson flattens his tongue against her, licking in broad slow strokes that feel amazing, but she needs more. She urges her hips up to meet him, angling against his jaw, trying to encourage him to go faster, deeper, harder, anything. But Coulson refuses to be hurried, taking his time touching and tasting and _looking, for god’s sake,_ Skye’s never had a guy examine her so closely while eating her out before.

She spreads her legs wider and one of his hands goes to her thigh, sliding up, thumb pressing into the back of her knee. He is finally _finally_ picking up the pace, burying his tongue inside her. He replaces his tongue with two fingers and she is going to wake the whole damn base if she doesn’t calm down.  

He teases her clit, flicking his tongue as he crooks his fingers just so, and she is coming apart, hissing his name, biting her lip. She spasms against his mouth, coming around his hand, gasping. Coulson doesn’t stop, his mouth is hot and unrelenting; she is suddenly grateful for the slow build because she’s already close again, one hand in Coulson’s hair, trying not to pull or push or scratch.

The second time she is silent as she comes, fingers digging into Coulson’s scalp despite her best efforts. He doesn’t seem to mind, grinning against her shaking thigh as he presses soothing kisses to her flushed skin.

Coulson is tender with her afterwards, all soft caresses and whispered kindness. He helps her down from the countertop, he even helps her find her bra afterwards, the perfect gentleman. As she pulls her shirt back on she sees him wiping down the counter with a dishcloth, ears flushing pink when he catches her eyes. 

She wants to ask if she can come to bed with him, but she doesn’t want to actually say the question out loud with words and stuff, doesn’t know if it would be welcome or not. She doesn’t know what this is, it’s all of a sudden and he seems like the kind of guy who would take this seriously, but who knows? An hour ago he seemed like the kind of guy who wouldn’t eat her out on a kitchen counter.

He saves her from her own embarrassment, _thank god_ , pulling her into his arms.

“Stay with me?” Coulson mutters the question into her hair, stroking her back in lazy circles.

 

\------

 

It’s around seven the following morning when Lance Hunter arrives in the kitchen.  The lights have been left on, which is unusual.  There’s also a heap of perfect peanut butter cookies next to the stove, seemingly untouched. There is no evidence of who did the baking; all the dishes are done, all the ingredients have been put away.

He’s confused by these events, but he’s not in the mood to pursue it until he’s had coffee. Not being in the habit of looking gift horses in the mouth, he grabs two handfuls of cookies for breakfast.

They are the best peanut butter cookies he’s ever had. 


End file.
